


Zaotang

by yeaka



Category: Smallville
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bodyswap, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dominance, Episode Related, Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Parent/Child Incest, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex knows it’s Lionel but wants <i>Clark</i> too much to stop. (Set during the “Transference” episode.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zaotang

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My first Smallville fic. Set in the episode “Transference,” s4e6, wherein Lionel and Clark switch bodies.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Smallville or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He knows exactly who it is.

It looks like Clark, sounds like Clark, even _feels_ the same way that Lex remembers, savoured from all the stolen moments over the years. He doesn’t know what Clark tastes like, but this seems right, and the familiar scent of sweat, farm life, and cheap deodorant fills his nostrils. Clark storms into his office often. 

But Clark never asks for such specific forms of money, doesn’t dress in crisp button-ups and casually shed fitted jackets, doesn’t comment on his alcohol, and above all, never notices when Lex stares that extra millisecond too long at his lips. Clark has an innocent smile, not a slick smirk. Clark’s never touched his face, lightly stroked his cheek, cupped his chin. Clark’s never kissed him. 

There’s a small, infinitesimal moment when their lips first press together that Lex stops thinking. His breath hitches, frozen. His lips are slightly parted, Clark’s soft but a little chapped, closed and chaste but _firm_. Clark presses into him with a certain surety that _almost_ lets Lex believe that it’s _finally happening_ : a useless, impossible fantasy from one too many daydreams. Lex shivers, warmth spiking all the way down to his toes. He’s _kissing Clark Kent_.

And then Clark opens his mouth and thrusts an eager tongue into Lex’s mouth with a skill no virgin could have. Clark’s large hand slides back along his bare neck, holding him in, body arching forward so their chests flatten together, all of Clark’s hard muscles like a wall of steel. And Lex knows it isn’t Clark anymore. 

Clark kisses him, one intense go after the other, all tongue and teeth and swirls and nips that keep Lex busy, then plants a hand on his hip and turns him—the discussion they’d started falls into nothing. Lex can hardly even remember it, and he always tries to remember _everything_ about Clark Kent. Clark wanted money, ribbed him about stealing his father’s wine, approached him with a strange, sensual sway of hips and unbridled confidence, an air of intimidation, and Lex wavered, and somehow, Clark finally _saw_ right through Lex’s mask. Clark doesn’t know him that well. He didn’t think anyone did. 

Well, one person. Clark forces him to move, stepping backwards without looking—he can’t tear his mouth away long enough to look where he’s going—even if it’s not Clark, it’s _Clark’s mouth_ , and _God, Lex wanted that._ Still wants it. It’s better than he thought—no boyish charm, all experience and intoxicating thrills. An arm around his waist, and suddenly Lex’s feet are off the ground: _Clark’s carrying him_. Like he weighs nothing. Lex tries to turn his head away, get some air and some semblance of what’s going on, but Clark snarls like an animal and bites into his bottom lip, dragging him back, and Lex surrenders to it because it’s _Clark_.

The back of his knees hit the arm of a couch. He’s tossed right over it, thrown so his back hits the cushions, feet over the edge. He scrambles up onto his elbows, breathing hard, and really _looks_ at Clark. Clark looms over him with a smirk to make Lionel proud.

 _Lionel_. Lex can _see_ his father through Clark’s eyes, and it makes him vaguely sick. If he lived anywhere else, he wouldn’t think it possible. But he _knows_ Clark. And then Clark parts his perfect lips and purrs, “I’m disappointed in you, Lex. A Luthor shouldn’t fall apart so easily over a simple farm boy.” It’s Clark’s voice, but Lionel’s words. Lex is unwaveringly sure. He doesn’t know how. But he knows in this strange town, with this strange man, it’s possible. 

He wonders vaguely if this is what Lionel/Clark really came to do, or if revenge was on the table before Lex showed his hand with that little slip of staring at Clark’s lips. He wonders how this fits in—why his own father would kiss him, only in another man’s body. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Instinct says to hiss, acknowledge, _Dad_ , but instead Lex says nothing, still deciding—if he admits he knows, it might not be real anymore. He can still pretend. On the surface, at least, it’s still _Clark_. 

Clark puts a knee on the couch. It must be clear that Lex isn’t going to contribute any conversation, so Clark climbs forward onto hands and knees, digging into the black leather cushions on either side of Lex’s body. That body should be younger—at least, the Kents say it is—but the height over Lex only highlights how much _bigger_ Clark is. Lex has never been small, but Clark’s broad shoulders cover Lex in shadow. Clark descends crotch-first, letting his hips grind down into Lex’s, and Lex grunts while Clark chuckles by his ear, “Is that all it takes to break you down, Lex? I thought you’d put up more of a fight than this.” He bucks down again, forcing Lex to stiffen, already half hard. Clark _touching_ him is the last thing he wants to fight. 

Lionel touching him makes him feel sick. He tries not to think about it. He wants to kiss Clark but doesn’t, isn’t sure yet that he wants to be a party to this disgusting game, so he waits for Clark to start. Clark runs his tongue lewdly up Lex’s cheek like a dog marking property, then licks over to his mouth and thrusts inside again—Lex tries to tell himself his muffled gasp is half protest. 

A few more kisses, and Clark starts really grinding into him, light at first but swiftly stronger, faster, digging deeper, until Clark’s humping him wildly, still with a certain practiced grace but enough that the couch groans in complaint. Lex tries not to do the same, tries for more control, but he can feel so much of _Clark_ through the expensive fabric of both their clothes, and he can feel the large bulge in Clark’s pants. His hips tremble to join but are never free long enough to reciprocate. He tries to keep his hands still, even though he wants to unbutton Clark’s shirt, push down his pants, _feel him_ , skin-on-skin, but that would be wrong, so wrong. It can’t really be Clark, and would it be wrong to use Clark’s body this way? But Lionel’s the one that’s using it, somehow. Lex can’t think straight enough to tell. Lionel doesn’t seem to have the same reservations. 

Lionel keeps one hand around the back of Lex’s neck and drags the other down to Lex’s belt, snapping it right open. Lex makes a noise into Clark’s mouth that might be an objection, but Clark pulls back enough to hiss, “Don’t fight it, Lex. It’s obvious you’ve been dying for this.” And then, to make everything so much worse, he grins and purrs, “You want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?”

Lex has never been a good boy for anyone. He risks panting hollowly, “What’re you then, my father?” Clark laughs, and for all of Lionel’s intellect, there’s no recognition in his eyes. He probably thinks no one could possibly comprehend such a bizarre shift in reality as body switching, but he doesn’t know what Lex has seen.

He mutters, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you had daddy issues.” He lifts back up to his knees, hands snaking away from Lex’s body and taking Lex’s belt with him. Lex tries to follow, but Clark shoves him back down with a force that flattens him right back along the couch. Standing back up, Clark orders, “Close your eyes, son,” with the sort of look that says he finds this new development hilarious. 

Lex sucks in a breath and, for the first time in a long while, obeys Lionel’s command. 

He hears a drawer open, knows that there aren’t any near the couch, and when he opens his eyes again, Clark is right where Lex left him, holding a little bottle in one hand. Lex recognizes it instantly as the bottle of oil he keeps in his desk, mostly for times after Clark’s visited and the frustration’s too much. How Clark grabbed it so fast, in the literal blink of an eye, Lex can only guess. He’s always had his suspicions. The thought that all of Clark’s peculiar talents are now in Lionel’s hands is mildly terrifying. 

Lex still lets Clark climb back over him. He still lets Clark open his shirt one button at a time. He lets Clark shove his trousers down his thighs, and he lays back, quiet in his own inner turmoil, while Clark stares at his body. He tries to think of the last time his father saw him naked but doesn’t know. He thinks there might be approval in Clark’s eyes, but it’s difficult to tell through the heavy smirk. He’d give just about anything to see Clark naked in return, but he can’t bring himself to ask for it—now that he knows who it is, it’s a power struggle, always is, and he can’t surrender that, even if he shows his submission in the way he lets it happen. 

Clark climbs back onto the couch, throws Lex’s legs open and hikes them up, one to either side, and notes, admonishing, “You’re quiet, Lex.” He pops open the bottle, pours a little onto one hand, and drops his hand under Lex. His eyes linger for a moment on Lex’s cock, traitorously hard and jutting straight up, his entire crotch as bald as his head, and then Clark looks back to Lex’s face. His fingers press against Lex’s ass, into his crack. Lex hisses at the cold liquid, and Clark muses, “It’s a verbal game, you know.”

Even if Lex had anything to say, he’d lose the chance when Clark finds his hole, blunt fingertip rubbing forcefully over it. Lex’s body tenses, though Clark coos, “Shh, relax.” Clark wastes no time before thrusting in—Lex grunts at the intrusion, wincing. It’s too fast, and Clark doesn’t stop there—more clues that this isn’t really Clark, because it _hurts_ and he’s so sure, even with all the troubles they’ve had, that the real Clark would never hurt him. This Clark forces too quickly in to the knuckle, then draws out to add a second, dripping digit. At Lex’s hiss of pain, Clark leans over him to purr, “Of course, if I were really your father, I wouldn’t be about to make love to you, would I? The more likely scenario would be for me to punish you—you know, give you a good, hard spanking, a cruel fuck, all the things that you really deserve.” His eyes betray that he’s already thinking about it, and he chuckles, “Maybe next time.”

 _Next time_. Lex has no idea how long this will last, how long Lionel will have this gorgeous body to wreck havoc in. Clark places another kiss at the side of Lex’s lips, now scissoring three fingers inside of Lex’s hole that feel gigantic. If it were anyone else, his cock would be flagging, but it’s still _Clark’s fingers inside him_. He knows he’ll never get this any other way. Lionel might fuck him again, let him taste Clark’s cock another time, but _Clark_ never will. 

As Clark’s fingers are pulling out, it grotesquely occurs to him that this might be the most affection his father’s ever given him. He doesn’t want to think about if that’s part of why he’s enjoying it or not. He’s so grateful when Clark’s cock shoves brutally into his opened hole, because then he doesn’t have to think about anything else. 

He can’t. Lex screams, fingers clawing so hard into the cushions that his knuckles turn white, and Clark _moans_ , dragging in all at once, too wide for it, not wet enough, Lex is stretched but it _can’t_ be enough; Clark’s cock is enormous. He should’ve known. He’s fooled around with plenty of men but never had one so big. Just one more Clark Kent superiority. Clark shoves his way in to the hilt, forcing Lex’s walls apart, then stills. He doesn’t show any of Lex’s pain, just unadulterated _pleasure_. He spreads his teeth along Lex’s jaw and bites _hard_ , ignoring Lex’s grimace and hissing, “Aren’t you tight. You need to get out more, Lex. Or stay in, once I move in—I’ll keep you nice and used...”

Lex gets fucked all the time but doesn’t want to tell his father that. He isn’t given any more time to adjust. Clark slides out and thrusts back in so hard that Lex is sure the couch will break. It’s balls-deep again and out faster, his own cock bouncing against Clark’s taut stomach, his chest exposed but Clark’s covered, and the next thrust is even quicker. They come at a brutal pace with bruising force. Every movement stings, and he hates himself for wondering if Lionel was this cruel in bed with his mother. 

Then Clark finds the right angle, and pleasure shoots up Lex’s spine, his next scream twisting into a moan. Clark aims there again and on each one following, still so hard but now so _good_ ; Lex breaks and shoots his hands off the couch, arms wrapping around Clark’s shoulders and pulling Clark down. He could almost believe it. Almost moan Clark’s name. But Clark kisses him back down, steals what little air he has, and growls into his mouth, “Perhaps I was wrong to discard you, Lex. You’re a good fuck. And you would love to be that for me, wouldn’t you? You love being held down and getting fucked hard by a stronger man...”

Clark frees his mouth enough for Lex to groan, “Yes, Daddy,” and he feels like dirt for about a split second afterwards before the next thrust stabs into his prostate and evaporates the ability to feel anything but pleasure. Clark looks at Lex in a way Lionel never has: pure approval.

All their dynamic is changed. They aren’t equals anymore, if they ever were. Clark fucks him mercilessly, not even bothering to touch his cock, and Lex just takes it, overwhelmed both emotionally and physically, sweating hard while Clark looks completely untouched, like this is nothing, like he could fuck Lex right through the floor if he wanted to. Maybe he could. Maybe he will. Clark strokes his cheek and purrs, “You’re never going to defy me again, are you, son?”

Lex shakes his head, has his mouth filled with tongue, and can’t decide if he wants to murder Lionel or cling to this fragile mockery of _love._ He dodges Clark’s next kiss and buries his face in Clark’s neck, breathing in all of _Clark Kent_ , but he pays for it with a bite to his cheek that’ll definitely leave a mark. He’ll be covered in marks. He won’t be able to walk after this for some time. He half expects to be fucked unconscious. He wonders if Clark’s even capable of _making love_ with strength like this.

Lionel isn’t. He bites Lex’s face and claims Lex’s mouth and looks down at Lex like a psychopath delighted to have caught such easy prey, and Lex’s chest heaves with mixed emotions, over stimulation, and exhaustion. Lionel hisses, “Come for daddy, Lex.”

On the next thrust, Lex does. He splatters all over both their stomachs and shrieks himself hoarse, not even bothering to touch himself—Clark fucks him right through it and milks him all out and keeps going, while Lex reels, dizzy. His arms slip limply from Clark’s shoulders. Clark switches to light kisses that Lex can keep up with, though only barely. He half wishes he’d had more to drink and had some chance of forgetting all this.

He’ll never be able to forget. Lionel won’t let him. Lionel goes for what feels like hours, then bursts inside Lex’s body. It occurs to Lex belatedly that there was no condom. Clark’s probably a virgin anyway. Lionel probably doesn’t care what happens to Clark’s body. He thrusts shallowly into Lex’s body while he finishes, filling Lex up with seed thankfully unrelated to him. Clark looks him in the eye the whole time with a silent command for Lex to keep his open.

Even spent, Clark spares a few more stabs into Lex’s abused, soaked hole before pulling out. It goes with a wet squelching sound that makes Lex wince. Clark sighs, “Good boy, Lex,” and bends down to peck his forehead. Lex feels like he’s been nowhere near good. 

With ridiculous ease compared to how wrecked Lex feels, Clark climbs right off the couch again. He tucks himself back into his pants, not a hair out of place, and walks right off towards the door.

Lex calls after him, “Where are you going?” 

“Pay attention, Lex: I’m moving in,” Clark calls over his shoulders. His pace is normal, but he’s through the grand doors too fast for Lex to stop. Lex feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

Lex lies where he’s left, torn with wretched possibilities, before finally staggering to his phone.


End file.
